In the cold room

Dear Prashant<>,

I’m writing to you again. It may be a bit impulsive to mail you but if you are reading this…

The floor, yes! I’m sitting on the floor. The room is cold. The lights are switched off. The speakers are singing beautiful melancholic lyrics interweaved with the sound of a sad mouthorgan. It’s not what nonsense the voices are saying but what the voices are feeling. And true! The voices are sad. The cold room itself is lamenting its misery by touching me on the floor. It has a painfully cold story. I want to get up but somehow I feel connected, I might be gifting it equal amount of cold stinging stories back. I’m sad.

“Try distracting yourself!” She had suggested the other day. “When I’m sad, I sketch!”  She holds an important place in me. Thankfully I never told her.

Not that I have never tried it but my hands are sad too. They resist being bothered. All I can do is, write, but that as well is not helping. Books? No! Walk? No! Music? No! Movies? No! Please no! Nothing’s helping!

I want someone to hear me. But I am unbearably alone. Trust issues! I have trust issues. I am slightly paranoiac as well. I don’t want anyone to enter my shell, still, I am human, and I’m alive, I breath and something in me surely beats. It yearns to be heard.

“Pain demands to be felt.”

Try visualizing me! A man in a dark room, kept like a heap of flesh on the floor, dead face wearing a macabre expression, scribbling the diary in the only light seeping into the room through the curtains, some sad artist singing ‘blues’ with mouthorgan and violin in the background.

 So many contacts on my phone! I have scrolled it thrice but have called none. I’m sure no one would want to hear me, more importantly; I do not want to talk to anyone. Often it comes to me as a sudden realization that I am surrounded by loads of people and yet I am alone. Am I sounding needy, vulnerable and desperate? Oh yes! I am! 

“You are so vulnerable in your writings! How can anyone share his vulnerability?” She would say.

I did not reply her, so here goes the truth. My pen is naked! It is justified for it to be a slut and to let go off its wildest dirtiest fantasies in the most shameless way. It does sing the melody of my vulnerability at times, and I let it, for I know; it does lie at times, but never pretends. 

Yours truly,



I was Flying

Aren’t bridges wings? Why has man thrown logs over streaming brooks? Why has he erected columns to pave way for humanity? Yes, they are bridges, they are wings! You fly over the land, only that you have your feet on the concrete. You feel the smell of air of the heights. You are born to fly. The ones on the ground, don’t they feel the desire to stand where you stand? Don’t they envy you for being at a height? Yes, you certainly fly, coz you are born to. Bridges are wings!

The other day, I was standing on a bridge. I was flying in the breeze, which fingered gingerly through my hair, and, like an old passionate lovelorn lover, seduced me to loosen up my clothes to feel her running with every hair, every goose bump of my body. It gently pecked marks of love over my body parched by the sunny days of lost childhood and fake adult rationale and hypocrisy. Yes, I was in love with the wind again, with myself and our solitude love making. I was flying again; naked I was, having stripped off my clothes of materialism, shrewdness, skewness and hatred. 

I was looking westward, to the setting sun. The horizon transitioned through thousands of psychedelic shades of amber, as the earth kissed the sun. The sun blushed and the whole sky, the whole of my bosom’s universe felt the tinge of love.

The river, the Ganga, that tore the horizon of nothingness filled wilderness into two, like a flying bird rips off the heart of the heaven into two, was wavering and returning back the blush to the sky. The boatmen down into the river carrying young couples pulled their boats in the stream. They are blessed people, they make some of the most mesmerizing and cherishable moments for people. They trouble their hands pulling oars to let people capture the spectacle into their hearts. They see numerous stories beginning and ending before them. On one hand they look at people starting their lives anew and on the other hand they turn their heads to the far back to look smoke rising from the cremation grounds.

I smiled at the brutally paradoxical irony. I pulled on my hood and flew away! Smiling! Waiting to fly over the scene again someday…in solitude…

Numb Nothingness! 

The auto kept moving in the tempo of its monotonous noise and I was lost in the haze of running trees and houses. The mind had a shallow nothingness drowning into a deeper one like a leaf tide on a sinking stone. It was strange how the mind was totally empty even though it had a great deal of issues to think over and over and over and over and to not reach a conclusion, then to get ready for next consignment of issues. 

She sat next to me. I couldn’t see her face as it was hidden beyond the curtains of bouncy hair. The suspense was clearly indicative of the veiled beauty. It was very tempting thanks to the proximity and the smell of her products. One would surely wish to brush her hair aside and stamp his love on her lips, which produced a beautiful melodious sound on the phone in Bengali. She was like a drag a of marijuana, you know it harms, yet you take it because it is the eventual ‘high’ that matters, the heaven and the angels that matters.

She was showing interest in me and that was making me fall in love with her. Why do I fall in love with every girl who shows even a little bit of attention to me! I sat before a mirror last night asking the same question over and over to my image but sadly my image kept asking me the same! It seemed to be stuck in the same problem.

She sat in silence then, not uttering a word except for the hum she produced. Some beautiful song lost in her hearts seemed to make out its way mesmerizing the listeners and freeing itself from a place nobody would long freedom from. I was tired and her divine voice reminded me of the childhood lullabies. I heard the voice of a lost child in me demanding more of the soothing voice caressing the wounds of rationale and hypocrisy that are getting indelible in me as I grow.

She invited me to spend some time with her. I was double minded about going. I did not want to reveal how insecure and vulnerable I was. Yes I speak less to others and more to myself, lest my words may sing the melody of my alone and needy heart.

Did she look into the blinking eyes which made futile efforts to look away from her? I have trust issues, a messed up past and pathetically tangled up present. I did not want her to get stuck in the cobwebs of my desperation and vulnerability to hurt herself ultimately. I smiled silently to her talks, her questions, her compliments. This is my reply to most situations in general. A smile. It is a nice tool for stoics who do not want to come across as rude and indecent. Besides, least said easily mended.

So much was altercating in my mind  yet there was a macabre nothingness like an abandoned cemetery. It was horrifying to find my thoughts numb and my lips smiling. The auto kept moving in the tempo of its monotonous noise and I was still lost in the haze of running trees and houses leaving my stop, three stops back!


The idea of penning this incident down came when I noticed two girls, in my university campus, posing for a selfie, from underneath the scarf that draped their face like a mummified corpse.  Weird enough to be laughed at and provoking enough to be avoided! I’m sure they must have produced a pout under the scarf, but the poor camera wasn’t powerful enough and could not scan, their lips dwindling, under the scarf. Thankfully it did not have the power, the x-ray vision; it would have blushed seeing the absurdity underneath the drape. Similar phenomenon has been observed for burqahs in every corner of the earth (corner! But I have heard that earth is round!). Women have often been spotted posing for camera from the drapery of burqahs. How exciting it would be to let the camera explore only the eyes (sometimes they too are behind laces and mesh) and a body covered in loose burqahs (it is almost impossible to guess the figure)! For some esoteric reason their elation is similar to the level of a regular girl clicking her selfie. It’s their picture, and I’m sure they remember the expression and thus, can see it, a pout, a bubble, a tease, or some other incomprehensible expression people often produce for the camera.

There are added advantages to the drapery trend besides protection from lusty eyes and equally lecherous pollution. You can always use it for identity theft and no one dares probe into your burqahs or general little drape, scarf. Women are quite privileged nowadays. Once upon a time there was a messiah named Feminism and he proposed the two sexes to be treated equal. I remember an incident from Kanpur railway station, my friend stood in a queue for ticket, it was a high time, diwali, and the head-legs-flood was on. A fat woman came pushing people and my friend objected. “Aunty line se aaiye please.” To this her reply was “Ladke, dikhta nahi ladies hoon!” No judgements on singularity-plurality of ‘ladies’. She was right, for the record she looked two in one.  “Toh please ladies wali line mein jaaiye na.” The women’s line was quite heavy too. “Ladies ki koi izzat hi nahi hai.” She pushed him and marched ahead to the counter. This happens quite often, there are women who demand respect and privileged (mark my words, privileged not equal), try out a public transport. I am quite confused where the limit of feminism ends and abuse starts. I am a feminist at heart but I surely loath the ‘demanded privilege’. Identity theft. You can put on a huge windshield, correction, huge sunglasses (still not much difference though), for better results. It is trendy plus traditional way to conceal identity. You might possibly forget using a concealer in makeup but scarf or burqahs compensates it completely, but I’m sure you do not want to forget mascara and kajal and eyeliner and god knows what all is smeared on eyes. It is unbiased, like many young men; to the exotic beauty or holy ugliness of your face it hides everything. Nevertheless as it conceals, it beautifies you too, exposing your killer eyes. Eyes in burqahs and scarf generally look beautiful, you might have so well reconstructed the face that sometimes the revelation might kill you.

Once a man on a bus I was travelling was continually flirting with a burqah lady who had, apparently, beautiful eyes. The lady too, supposedly, was playing along. Thirty kilometers of journey before the man saw her shriveled and aged hand. It was embarrassing for him and hilarious for me. You cannot ask a girl to lift the veil; you do not want to get a slap or worse a fatwa against you (worst if someone executes the demands of fatwa). In the times of scarcity, feel free to use the scarf as a bed sheet of towel (government has started issuing sanitary pads in hospitals I suppose, thankfully, else… who knows). The trend redefines the liberty and reusability; you conceal your assets before papa using the scarf as dupatta and are free to reveal it before boyfriend.

Another incident happened at a paani-puri makeshift shop near my home. A teen couple (apprarently) sat waiting for their orders and the girl happened to see her father pass by. She safely pulled on her scarf. Identity saved! ‘Get on your boyfriend’s bike before papa; it is now possible with our version 2.0 rainbow scarf’. You can also walk past your boyfriend with a new boyfriend, unnoticed! We have enough justified arguments and evidences in its favor. It protects you form dust, smoke and tan. But do we get tanned at nights too or inside a restaurant or even in rain? It is like a person wearing sunglasses at night or in bathroom.

Let us take an oath to get our pictures clicked in pompously colored drapes on funerals and let our boyfriends guess us from our eyes, if they don’t, lets dump them on the name of this holy drapery trend. Relationship status: Draped in a complicated relationship.

Thanks for reading.